


Black Fairy

by saint sentiment (cmm6016)



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmm6016/pseuds/saint%20sentiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of a mission leaves Leon with a beautiful amnesiac and a lot of disturbing questions. The deeper the blood runs, and the better it tastes, the less he wants the answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Appearance

“Michael Claireborne” drives a grey camper van. The textile plant where he works hardly knows he exists. He has a one-bedroom apartment in Colorado Springs. Few friends, no family. Everyone knows he’s foreign, but he and his paperwork say he was born here.

Leon’s manila folder calls bullshit.

Mykolas Cleja. Hungarian arms dealer. As of late, he’s also dipped his hands in the bioorganic weapons trade. Leon has been monitoring him for a couple of weeks, but he managed to keep up the façade of normality until now.

His device beeps. Leon brings it to his ear.

“Have you reached the airport?” Ingrid’s voice has become older, almost maternal, despite the fact that she’s younger than he is.  
“I’m parked right across from the terminal. Claireborne’s meeting up with a friend.”

“Alright. Contact me at your earliest convenience.”

“Will do.” Leon pockets the device. Across the street, Mykolas has his hands in his pockets, trying to suppress his desperate boredom. Exasperated, he buys a magazine and sits on the far edge of a bench, dismissing every page like clockwork. Leon feels his frustration with the mania of film stars, waistlines and romantic liaisons. However, unlike poor Mykolas, Leon’s training has his patience finely tuned. Those bizarre interpersonal skills courses that required he stare blankly at other people for uncomfortably long periods of time are coming in handy. The government has made him such an adept phantom that time loses it measurements, for which he can certainly be grateful. Makes waiting in line at the bank or the hospital less of a pain in the ass. In this way, two hours of voyeurism pass without much notice.

Leon sits up in his seat when Mykolas looks askance from his magazine twice in one minute, only to follow his glance and see the man that had his legs fall asleep is finally on his way over. The man sits next to Mykolas and they wax old friends. Leon squeezes his toes together in his mountain boots to alleviate the beads of numbness.

They leave together in a leisurely stride, trying to appear like they have all the time in the world. Leon puts the key in the ignition when they’re a safe distance away. They get into his camper van. The other closes his door gentler than a car of that size would normally warrant. Almost as if they’re trying not to disturb what’s inside.

The last van he opened held two sedated Lickers in metal cages. Their mouths were tapered closed with a gum-like adhesive and their arms and legs were shackled with titanium manacles. Assumptions work against his training and a cooler state of mind, but he’s been right too many times to ignore the notion.

They approach a red light. Two cars behind, Leon’s stomach tightens. He imagines the creatures shuffling from the sudden stop, their claws beginning to wriggle, wakening gradually.

Fear rises, but the holsters at his hips remind him of all the warped abominations he’s blown away despite their size and speed. The beating of his heart abates, replaced by an impatient burning. The smell of wrong and the need to bring it to account.  
The streets meld into each other. Neon lights of small restaurants streak past and the lampposts become a never ending arch of craning necks. He wishes Claire were here for a bit of conversation; these kinds of rides always compound the loneliness, reminding him that while others watch TV or have a few drinks at the bar, his idea of fun is following a couple of insurgents into the night with every intention of sending them back to Hungary in body bags.

He can’t trail them for much longer. The roads they travel are beginning to get less and less congested. Cars to hide beside are starting to veer off into neighboring exits. With a heavy heart, he joins the last two cars as they take the turn that goes downtown.

They continue straight along, happily alone. Not for long, he promises.

Leon takes a pit stop at a nearby Exxon and makes the call he’d rather have made after he readied them for the coroner.  
“Hunnigan. I’ve had to lose them. But I think I know where they’re headed.”

“You ‘think’. Not a good word.”

“If my hunch is right, you owe me a drink.”

Hunnigan readjusts her glasses, makes what he knows is a Mona Lisa smile and ends the transmission.

Leon hits the interstate again, quelling his stomach with a quick swig of Gatorade. The condensation makes the bottle slip through his fingers and plop into the cup holder with a precarious splash. He screws the lid on, damning his frustration.

Hunnigan, always such a tease, doesn’t like to show how much confidence she’s had in him since Spain. He wishes he has that confidence now.

Half an hour of road later and no sign of them. All he’s managed to retain is a full bladder and a heavy amount of anxiety. Did they go through the toll? Are the bastards on their way to New Mexico now?

The transaction could already be over.

His breath hitches. Just ahead the shoulder drops off into a dark, earthy drive. The car slows to a crawl. The headlights illuminate the sharp end of an amputated guardrail that curls in toward the path. He shuts off the engine. A ridged plateau towers over the jungle of thick pines. They were headed to Pulpit Rock, as he’d suspected.

Leon checks his weapons, ejecting the clip into his gloved hand to double-check if it’s loaded. Satisfied, he pushes it back in. He adjusts his holsters, pockets his Night Vision scopes. The Silver Ghost gleams beautifully in the dark of his car. His world-traveler, savior and uncomplaining ally. We have some heads to split, Gladys.

He’s ready.

The grass is dead and grey, the whiskers of old men. In puffy tufts it pockets the path, sharing the same color as the wispy soil. The rut of tires leads the way, but not in a straight line. The ground is too hardened and pocketed with stones that jut out in sharp angles to allow a smooth ride, especially for such a large vehicle. They’ve been here more than once. It could be an intermediate location, one they use on their way to greet the buyers, or perhaps they’re scouting locations to let their cargo loose and cause another outbreak.

Leon can’t deal with the way he thinks sometimes. He knows enough about bioterrorism to enact it himself, all with the most depraved means of the business.

He quiets his thoughts and keeps his ears open, still for the moment. Just the rustle of trees, shrubbery. It’s pretty disappointing. The rustle of feathers points his attention to an interested owl, its eyes being its only discernible feature. It rests in the blackness of the tree’s orifice. Eyes the color of lit caramel stare back. It is kind enough not to betray his stealth, and allows him to pass without a hoot.

The scope shows the tracks in fluorescent green. Feeling distinctly like Buffalo Bill, Leon follows what’s been laid out for him. He shuts out conscience as he so often does, readies himself for the kill. He makes himself want it.

Voices emerge. He stills again. Not English. Russian-sounding gibberish. Hungarian. Their voices are low and he can’t pinpoint them just yet. The crunch of leaves and the unzipping of a duffle bag point his ears, and subsequently his eyes, in the right direction.

Mykolas and his other friend have started a small fire and are warming their hands. Mykolas sits on a severed trunk. The other doesn’t mind the dirt floor and assumes all the complacency of an Indian chief, legs crossed, eyes narrowed at the fire.

A third man emerges from the back of the van. He closes the doors too quick to allow Leon a glimpse. He has a rough buzz cut, coarse skin and a massive, cruel frame. His eyes are hard, his mouth set in a mild sneer. Leon can’t tell if that’s his default expression or if he’s just been insulted by a fourth man in the van. Whatever the case, he’s the one to worry about. The other two have guns, doubtlessly, but the third has enough mass to survive being dog piled by several men of Krauser’s size. Underneath his open, weathered parka is a thick tactical vest. His legs end in large, seasoned boots, attuned to the crushing of skulls. He is as patient and deliberate as death would be.

The other two are chatty Cathy’s. They must be better friends than he thought.

For another half hour Leon assumes the existence of a hidden totem pole with impeccable trigger discipline until Mykolas and the other, whom he decides to refer to as No.2, finally give him a glimpse of what he’s been waiting to see for weeks.

Mykolas goes in. No.2 dangles out, pointing at something in the van and nodding in approval.

No cages. He slowly allows the breath he’d been holding to leave his nostrils. This mission just got a whole lot easier.

The opening reveals the partial view of a reservoir. He catches the edge of two pale toes, the slither of a folded leg. A woman’s leg, judging by the thinness. Leon isn’t happy to add human trafficking to their list of vices, but the evidence is pretty compelling.

Unless…

Leon loses his train of thought at the sight of opportunity. Both Mykolas and No.2 lock themselves in the van, leaving No.3 all by his big lonesome.

No.3 lifts his nose to the air, sniffing, then turns around. While he rummages around in a duffle bag, Leon steps away from the trunk he had been hiding behind. The laser points, steadies on the back of the man’s unsuspecting head.

No.3 whirls away in a blur of muscle as the bullet whizzes past. Bounding, he charges at Leon. Before he can fire another shot, the man grasps both of his hands and quickly averts the bore of the gun to the sky, crushing their four hands together. The shot shatters the air and birds take flight in screeching cries.

Leon lifts his legs and throws him off with a suplex. The man tears away and stumbles, managing to wrench the gun from Leon’s hands. The gun stumbles somewhere into the darkness. Temporarily stunned, he reels from the kick and grasps his chest.

Only to pull out a Nighthawk. Its glint is searing, the edge vicious.

Fucking shit—

Gladys lost herself in the leaves. That’s both good news and bad news. At least Tiny here had butter fingers and now has no time to look for it. But that doesn’t quite deter the fact that he’s gunless.

He reaches his breast, unsheathing his own blade.

The van’s latch cranes downward as they make a wary half-circle around each other. Mykolas breaks out, pointing a gun. His forehead already sports a greasy sheen. He isn’t used to confrontations. The other kicks open the opposite door and aims his gun.

Leon dives into the foliage as the bullets pelt the area of retreat. Bark splinters off the trees as he makes a dash for his life. He pulls out a throwing knife and takes cover. The owl fled more gracefully than he did.

He spots No.2 and jumps out, tossing it like a Frisbee and then sprinting down the path. His heart leaps, almost out of joy, at the juicy thunk. He has already gone too far to hear him collapse.

The gunfire intensifies. If he keeps running, he’ll hit the road. Can’t advertise the shootout anymore than he already has. He takes cover again, crouching behind a springy sapling.

No. 3 comes into view. He has Gladys. No wonder he didn’t hear the charging of the bull immediately after he bolted. Mykolas catches up to his partner in a quick strut, showing horrible consternation. His forearm is damp.

Lucky graze.

“Come out you bastard,” he rasps. The wounded huskiness of his voice has him sounding more like a pissed off Russian than an injured Hungarian.

No.3 doesn’t speak, gravitating toward the sapling Leon is hiding behind. Crouching, he lowers the blade toward the ground. When No.3 gets nearer than he should, Leon’s blade slices through his Achilles tendon. His scream shakes the earth and he falls like a Titan.

Mykolas screams too and begins shooting wildly. He is silenced when a throwing knife lodges itself into his skull. He drops, attended by a flurry of dirty leaves.

No.3 yanks himself upright. His shots repeatedly miss Leon’s retreating figure. He empties Gladys out of rage and the slide locks back. He discards it and props himself up on one elbow, readying his knife.

Leon lurks behind the trees. The man has his back to him. He can see blood spurt out of the smile cut into the man’s heel. He spots a log nearby and picks it up.

One solid hit to the head and No.3 collapses. His large upper body slumps into the leaves. He lets the splintered log fall on his chest. He kicks the knife away.

He wipes his forehead. Breathe in, breathe out.

His muscles sore, nerves frayed, utterly pissed off at all the commotion, Leon stomps on the man’s head for good measure and loves the little crack he hears. The Leon of a few years before might have spat on him too, but that’s just excessive at this point. They’re all dead, and Gladys is lying a few feet from him. Had she been a real woman, he would have a lot of ass-kissing to do.  
He picks her up, dusts her off, and slides the top back in place. He replaces the magazine. Back in business.

The trees open into the clearing as he heads back to the camper. It sits complacently and waits. Open for him to see.  
The capsule’s glass has a slight layer of frost over it. Stained brown accordion tubes jut from the top. All in all, it looks like a white frosted egg with thick hairs on its head.

And of course, there’s the girl.

Her faces hides in her folded legs and her arms are wrapped around her knees. Her skin is silvery, new. He looks around. On a stainless steel table, there are various implements that he supposes are for medical purposes – gauze, scalpels of varying sizes on a silver tray, some antiseptic, non-latex gloves, thermometers, scissors, and syringes. And blood bags.

Blood bags?

He turns back to the pod. The tubes are stained with this blood.

An image of Manuela flashes in his mind. Her Pocahontas mane, the sun-kissed skin, a tattered white dress and bandages wrapped around her arms. In her case, she needed organs. Is that what the blood is for? Maybe she’s sick. He bends down and opens the mini refrigerator underneath the table. More blood bags piled on the rack. Some more at the bottom, and two Red Bulls. His best guess is she probably needs blood transfusions.

But if she’s in this state, why was Cleja transporting her like contraband? What good would a sick girl be? His heart leapt. She might be infected.

He taps the frosty glass with his gun. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

The tubes wheeze recycled air.

“Hello?”

Her emaciated legs open, and her knobby wrists detach, stretching. She unfurls like a tired flower. Groggy from the ride.  
“Are you okay?”

She rubs her eyes, scratches at her collarbone. Her lips are chapped and blue. When she shivers, all previous thoughts of her potential malignancy are thrown right out the window. If she can itch and shiver… He scans the pod for any way he can free her. At the top of the ‘egg’, where the tubes are attached, is a rotational cap with a slot in the shape of a rectangle.

Jumping out of the van, he darts back into the woods and searches the bodies. No.2 has no presents for him. In Mykolas’ left pants pocket is the heavy but portable key he hoped to find. Just to be safe, he searches No.3, but he’s got nothing on him but a pack of gum (that he’ll be taking) and another buck knife. He finds a home for it in his own holster and decides he’ll take the other one that he kicked into the leaves as well.

The girl presses her palms up against the glass when he returns. Not in an attempt to escape, but to petition his attention. Even if she were to thrash about and struggle in her oval prison, he doubts it’d do any good, and she appears to be aware of it. He’s sure the glass has been proofed in just about any way it could be.

The key and slot become one. He turns it clockwise, and it locks. Counterclockwise this time, and a glorious click is heard, along with some hydraulic whirs of confirmation. The cap elevates itself, spewing a fluffy mist of cold, sterilized air out of the egg. She is patient, shivering as he removes the cap and sets the hunk of metal on the floor.

She doesn’t emerge from the capsule.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m gonna get you some help.”

She stares.

He fights an eye roll as he considers that the only language she knows is Hungarian. He holds out his hand. She glimpses from him to his hand and decides to stand. Aside from being completely nude save for a black collar around her throat, the chill emanating from her skin disturbs him the most. Has she never been in the presence of another living creature? A bizarre first impression for a girl on the cusp of adulthood, but he can’t think of any other explanation for the bewildered beauty on her face.

She topples into his arms and the capsule tips over, hitting the floor of the van like a simple clink of two glasses. It must have been reinforced like no one’s business.

“You’re not hurt are you?”

She seems astonished by his warmth and huddles closer. She presses her nose into the fabric of his shirt, breathes deep.  
Leon blinks. “I’m guessing… you like me?”

He can feel the cadaverous firmness of her muscles quake through his clothes. All he wants is to warm those frozen bones. He shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over her.

“Treat this with care, alright?” he smiles. “I really like this jacket.”

Her fingers creep up to his cheeks, tracing his features. She smiles.

~~

Hunnigan’s response team arrives in less than an hour. Leon zips up the jacket to hide her white breasts. Their black garb and impenetrable visors don’t make them look like the friendliest bunch, but allies don’t always look the part.

The EMT approaches at a quick stride. “Agent Kennedy. Have you sustained any injuries?”

“I’m fine. The girl, though… I freed her from this capsule. Her skin is practically frozen and she’s very languid. I think she may have a blood-related ailment.”

The man unzips his jacket and it falls off. She makes a move to put it back on, but he stops her. “Ma’am, I need to take a look at you.”

“I don’t think she speaks English,” Leon offers.

He huffs. He goes through the motions while she looks on in wonderment that she is an object warranting examination. The EMT finds no wounds and covers her once more.

“She’ll still need to be monitored for signs of hypothermia,” he tells Leon. “She’ll be taken to the nearest hospital.”

Her pace is wobbly as she walks with the man to the medic vehicle. Her legs are heavy with disuse. Her moony eyes gape into the blinking lights of spinning beacons as she’s ushered into the back. The rear doors close.

The ambulance trudges down the path. The blinking lights eventually fade, and so does the retreating crunch of gravel.  
He knows he’ll probably never see her again. Just like Sherry and Manuela before her, she’ll disappear into the impenetrable shadow of government custody for years to come. When she surfaces, if she surfaces, it will be as a tight-lipped woman with indiscernible secrets. She won’t show any trust, and she’ll have done away with that lack of pretention only found in a child’s judgment. At least that’s how he imagines it turning out. In Sherry’s case, he did see her again—but only after she was an adult, and technically still government property.

Sherry has her own research facility right in the heart of D.C. As program coordinator and head researcher, all of those under her were hand-picked through extensive screening. Even to Leon, who’s been inside there more than a few times, it still manages to retain all the intrigue that surrounds a secluded castle high in the mountains.

It’s a sad thing that the keys to human advancement have to be protected so jealously. But knowledge can be terrible in the wrong hands, if Raccoon and his life since then have taught him anything. In a universe where the form of creation can be disfigured by what overcurious sociopaths call science, the better side can’t win without trapping their tricks in their own vault.  
Leon shuts off his disquieting muse and drives home after the usual run-through of inquiry and protocol, leaving the rest of the team to scavenge what they can from the van and the bodies. Hunnigan, and subsequently the Secret Service, know all they need to know about what Leon’s experience tonight has been. All he has left to do is get a good night’s sleep before booking his flight back to D.C.

The road back to the hotel is longer than he remembered. Time goes faster when your heart anticipates evil occurrences. But now that’s all over. He can drink his lukewarm Gatorade and run his hands through his hair, steering lazily into the bypass and watching those same lights beam in serenity, when anxiety made them flicker like demon eyes.

The car door closes and a yawn breaks through; he lifts his arms to the night sky and bends them over his head, dropping them like the arms of a doll. He enters the hotel. He passes a set of teenage girls fretting over their iPhones and some tardy boys in the lobby, and their stares follow him for a few moments. He ascends the stairs in a very casual, civilian way, his face plastered over with the normality of boredom.

The dark greets him. In the stuffy blackness there is no room for coherent thought other than the earnest desire for a bed, again, and for following ghosts to find other ways of entertaining themselves rather than clinging to his company.  
When the bed finally welcomes him, he can’t help it. His dreams trouble him with that cold girl. Her ice sits on his shoulders, and he wonders if the scent of him is a comfort in the midst of all the strangers, the men who speak a bizarre language and want to run so many tests.

~~

Leon wakes to the sun’s grimace. He rolls over to cover himself with an imaginary item of clothing that he is so used to having the night erased the memory of its absence. Of course it isn’t there, and the cold girl greets him, along with the men’s dead-but-awake faces. His stomach rots and growls in tandem. So hungry. So jacketless.

He makes the bed, arches his spine and is reminded how the cracks he hears is a head stepped on. He almost feels sorry for the bastards.

The gun rests on bistro table like an idle boomerang next to his breakfast plate. A stuffed napkin holder sits in the middle. The eggs sizzle on the pan; he taps the tin and peppers the yolk. He puts the pepper back in the cabinet and takes out the salt, taps it over the pan. He can actually say he’s feeling okay. Breakfast alone is enough to be content for.

He sits down and forks his eggs. Folding the toast, he dumps the chopped eggs over it. The yolk seeps through and glazes his fingers. Always so messy.

First breakfast, then his sit-ups, crunches, and pushups. After that –

He hears the window pane slide up in other room.

Without a moment’s hesitation he slips a yolky finger over the trigger and rounds the corner, aim poised to kill. Someone come for revenge?

The gun lowers, and he blinks.

There she is.

Arms folded over her bent knees, smiling the smile she learned from him. No shame of being bare. His gift to her is folded and lies over her lap, an offering.

She has a jacket to return.


	2. Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Since those who reviewed mentioned Leon’s gun, I thought I could include a little trivia. In Sin City, the character of Marv (portrayed by Mickey Rourke) has a gun named Gladys. His wiki profile states he named his gun after a nun who was kind to him when he was child.

  

These aren’t exactly the eyes of a killer.

Hell, she doesn’t even seem to have a clear idea of what a gun is.

She swishes her head to one side so she can see his face better, but the bore of the gun follows and stares right back. The other side. The same thing. She’s perplexed by it.

“How did you get away from the hospital? Why did you follow me?”

He grunts underneath his breath. One question at a time, Leon. Don’t want to overwhelm her. Then he remembers. She doesn’t know English. Fuck. How they’re supposed to communicate is beyond him.

She’s got universal language down pat – that of a smile, a stupid one, considering she doesn’t know she’s being held at gunpoint. She must really have not been out much at all.

He sighs, lowers the gun again.

She holds the jacket up to him by the arms. She wants him to take it and wear it again.

…Is that how she found him? Through the jacket?

Might as well introduce himself.

He places a hand on his chest plate. “Leon.”

She follows suit, placing her hand on her chest. Except she doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

“ _Ur_ soola.” The ‘r’, rolls in minute precision; the ‘oo’ sounds like the coo of a dove. “Leeohn.”

He can spare a chuckle at that, even if it’s a pained one. Luis pronounced his name in much the same way, emphasizing the ‘on’ and making it sound more exotic than it really was. An _Americano_ , white as a washboard, named Leon? _Comico._

Luis would laugh at the little Tarzan moment they just had, too.

He sits by the bedside. She gestures to the jacket.

“Jacket,” he affirms.

“ _Jah_ ket.”

It’s gonna be a long night.

 

 

“I don’t think she’s dangerous. Or if she is, I don’t think she _knows_ that she is.”

_“There’s more than meets the eye.”_

“You’re telling me. I still don’t know how she found me.”

_“She came back with something that was yours. My guess is that she tracked you – like a wolf would track its prey.”_

“You mean she followed my scent?”

_“You know what Hunnigan said happened in the hospital. How could a normal girl jump from a 3 story window?”_

 

 

_“…Abashed, the devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is, and saw virtue in her shape, how lovely… and pined his loss…”_ he reads, from an old book a college friend had loaned him and has since slept ruefully in his basement. She won’t let it go now.

“So he can never have her?”

She returns his stare.

“Poor bastard.”

The girl isn’t inclined toward humor. Anything is a subject of solemnity, and she studies everything with quiet reverence. It could be the wisdom of ages. Or just the simple humility of a child, even though she clearly isn’t one.

While her English has gotten better, she speaks very little. Questions only lead to dead-ends.

She doesn’t know where she’s from. No memory of anything she’s ever seen, anyone she’s ever met. She didn’t even recognize the bodies of the men who were transporting her to wherever she was going to be presumably sold.

Leon thinks of these things as he rolls his shirts lengthwise into tight bundles and stuffs them into the suitcase. All the while she lies on his bed, stark naked underneath that jacket, wearing only a black velvet choker. It is fixed with a gold, oval cameo locket etched in a woman’s 19th century profile.

The girl’s chestnut hair is curt and wavy, shorter than even his hair, and curls up toward the sides of her head and the ceiling. It waxes whimsical and cherubic. Her eyes are like those of a Siamese cat, glossed blue marble. Her patience is infinite, almost oracular.

There’s dirt under her nails and the mud on her cracked soles have dried to a caked, soily primrose color.

“Ursula.” He says. “Cute name.”

 

 

Leon feels better now that he’s home again.

It was a little awkward to be standing around with the girl in Customs, but they just assumed she was his younger sister and he hadn’t spotted anyone suspicious while they were there. A person or two took a double take at her clothes, though. He couldn’t really help that he’s never gone shopping for a girl before, and he was pretty in the dark as to what other girls think are fashionable. Aside from that he didn’t want any attention on her, so he tried to keep it as frumpy as possible. He favors wearing darker, somber colors himself; it’s easier to fade in with the crowd. Black is his shade of comfort. He’s thankfully past that cringe-worthy metrosexual phase he was going through at the time of the Los Illuminados incident.

Right now she has on a Fruit of the Loom t-shirt that is 3 sizes too big for her, a pair of Spider-Man boxer shorts and polka dot fuzzy socks (he bought them from a discount bin in Kid Gap because she wouldn’t let them go).

The ignored TV airs old Seinfeld episodes. His cell phone sits on the marble tabletop and there are no missed calls as of yet.

Sherry’s a bit tied up in current projects right now, but she has promised him that she’ll be checking in the first chance she gets. He hopes Ursula won’t be too spooked by another face. She’s made it clear that she doesn’t like hospitals.

He slides the pizza box on the kitchen counter and opens the refrigerator to get the Iced Tea and what’s left of the Pepsi.

“Ursula, come and eat.”

Ursula peeks from behind the arched doorway that leads into the kitchen, as if suspecting a ruse. But no. Only a pizza box and Leon taking out plates from the cabinet.

She tentatively approaches. The tiles feel like something her feet have been on once. But the flash is gone as soon as it came.

“This is what?”

Her sentences come out of order sometimes. It’s funny but he tries not to laugh. He appreciates that she’s trying.

“Pizza.”

Ever since he found her two nights ago (and she found him right back) she hasn’t been showing any interest in food. He’s tried giving her water and juice, crackers and half-sandwiches, but she turns away from it. As he suspects, the opened box earns less than 10 seconds of her attention, and she starts to make for the bed again, where her precious books are. She skims over the words all day to decipher the code but always waits until he returns to read to her.

“Wait up, girl.” He turns her around. “You’ve gotta eat or you’re going to collapse. Now let me get you a plate.”

She stands there as he serves her.

The slice stares back. Like a monkey with a Rubik’s Cube, she hardly knows what to do with the thing. She looks to Leon for direction. He shakes his head, folding his slice and bringing the tip to his mouth.

She copies, and takes a timid bite.

 

 

Leon strokes her soft, brief curls as she hurls into a mop bucket that smells like dirty water and Lysol. The first time always burns the most. Must’ve been bad pizza.

The third time, nothing comes out but a few drips, and she burps painfully. Coughing, idling over the bucket, she smells the paprika and tomato sauce. The teary slits of her eyes catch the detestable conglomerate of color. She clutches her stomach in fear that it will happen again.

Leon murmurs something about a stomach virus as he rubs her shoulders. “It’s over now.”

He rips off a sheet from the roll of paper towels and wipes her mouth. She still has her eyes closed. Focusing, for the moment, on just breathing.

 

 

By 3AM that night, watching old reruns of the Twilight Zone and pacing back and forth waiting for Sherry to call him back is working on his last nerve.

She’s still alive. That much is discernible from the weak thumping of her pulse. But she’s beginning to lose color and her eyes won’t open. She can’t get up.

She vomits everything. Water. Oatmeal. The medicine. Nothing is working.

Leon’s sure it’s because she pushes away everything he gives her, and she doesn’t know how important it is that she eats. But when she does, it only comes back up. Among his guesses are the stomach virus he considered first, the flu, and even dysentery.

He sits on the bed. The creak doesn’t stir her. His fingers run through her hair again, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead to gauge a fever. She doesn’t have one. His brows knit. That’s even stranger. No fever, no evidence she has any of those things.

Slowly, Ursula lifts her head to his palm. Her nose presses against it. She licks it. And bites.

He flinches and draws back like a spring. He turns his hand over to see that she’s drawn blood.

“Let me kiss it.. good.” she whispers. Her voice is a squeak across old floorboards.

“You bit me. You’re not kissing anything.” He sidles the edge of the bed, watching her sit up lazily, a corpse brought to stand. Her eyes are still heavy with exhaustion—the weariness of death.

“Please come… come here.”

“Why did you bite me?”

“I’m, I am…sorry.”

“You bit just hard enough to break the skin.”

“It hurts… much?”

On a hunch, he approaches again, offering his palm. She laps it once before he pulls back again. Her eyes close, savoring. She lies back again. For the rest of the night, she’s as sound and uncomplaining as a lamb.

 

 

When he’s in the mood to read long and strenuous texts, Class A clearance leaves room for research more open than when the Red Sea was parted. But it’s not helping much right now. Unsurprisingly, he’s not allowed to print any of these finds, and instead has to leaf through digital databases, pulling up hundreds of windows, closing and rearranging them, writing names and dates and places on sticky notes. Reentering his pass code is really starting to get on his nerves.

Three hours of searching has yielded no fruit.

No documented B.O.W., virus or other pathogen even gives him a clue as to what she is, or what she has. As a blind shot, Leon starts cross-referencing female cases of infection.

Nothing relevant in Lisa Trevor’s files, or Alexia Ashford’s. The standards of their mutations were wholly different.

Leon scratches his stubble for the sake of scratching it, narrowing his eyes in particular at three words that will not stop making him itch.

The Wesker Project.

Thirteen documented children. Eleven who died before their 20th birthday. Most of them died before he was even born. Albert and Alex Wesker were the only survivors. Albert Wesker died in 2009. Alex Wesker, for the time being, is just as much of a ghost, if he ever really existed.

When Albert was alive, he had Progenitor in his veins. That enabled him with brute strength, blinding speed, advanced healing, among other things. True to his analytic nature, Wesker documented the ailments that would befall him if his injections weren’t regular, but he never documented a need to consume blood. Moreover, no mention of anyone who ever had. None of those freaks except Wesker managed these augmentations while retaining a human form, either. Ursula shows no outward signs of mutation. There is nothing distinguishing her from a normal girl, at least on the outside.

Whoever worked on her worked long and hard. It’s just a question of what pharmaceutical house of horrors she came from.

There is no mention of any girl named Ursula in relation to Umbrella Corp, dead or alive, in any of the databases—which comprise millions of articles of research from scientists the world over, including volumes of work authored by Spencer himself. Nada for Tricell and Wilpharma as well.

They all say about as much as she does.

He glances up from the blue computer screen. Hell, he might as well keep trying.

“Ursula… do you remember anything before those men?”

She turns from admiring an old painting on his wall, chin in her hands.

“No. No men.”

“I mean, do you think you lived with other people, but you just don’t remember it?”

She smiles. “I don’t know.”

Leon grunts, dragging the mouse around as comfortably as a bar of soap on dry skin.

Sherry Birkin, the only other person who knows the girl’s with him, calls her a Chupacabra.

He also has a feeling that whatever she is, she’s incomplete, which is why she’s so vulnerable despite all her power. Ursula might be unaware, but he knows people are looking for her. No doubt someone’s been alerted that their cargo has been confiscated. She’s a stolen asset—both to the government and the men who created her.

 

 

_‘I did love you… once.’_

_‘Indeed, my lord. You made me believe so.’_

_‘You should not have believed me; I loved you not.’_

Whispers reach his ears, and he takes his eyes off the screen again to study her.

_‘Get thee to a nunnery…’_ she pronounces, in secluded fervor. _‘…Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow…’_ the book’s pages flip fast, her murmurings dying and starting up again.

He has never been much enamored of literature. Words were arduous things to consider all throughout middle and high school. He was ‘no great orator’ and an even poorer writer. He thought it’d be much easier to contribute to society by becoming a cop. Life, as it were, had other plans.

_‘…Thou shall not escape calumny. Or if thou wilt need marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.’_

The quotes crawl along the wall. When their eyes meet, she stops.

She is learning at an advanced rate. It’s been 4 days, and Ursula is fluent.

_It’s not normal_ , Leon thinks.

His phone rings. He presses the green button before it can even finish.

_“Did you tell Hunnigan? Anyone?”_

“No.”

There’s a slight pause that tells Leon she disapproves. When he’s dodgy or secretive, she tends to believe it’s never for as good as reason as it he wants it to be.

“Sher, let me ask you something.”

_“Yes?”_

“Did you like your time in U.S custody?”

Her response hitches, and then dies off with a sigh.

“You know Wesker had eyes on the inside as you were growing up, and I doubt anything’s changed. Terrorists have contacts in every nook and cranny, especially in the places people tend to place their faith in the most. I’m not taking any chances.”

It’s true enough that she’s got nowhere to go. He won’t consider giving her to Benford. He might be buddy-buddy with the President, but that’s hardly a reason to give anyone else the benefit of the doubt. Their first instinct will be tests, some of which will be painful. He doesn’t want her falling into the wrong hands and becoming another Lisa Trevor, either.

So for the time being, it appears that his only option is to keep her for a while longer, while she’s demure, innocent and most of all, blissfully ignorant of her true nature.

The real issue is how long he can keep this up. His stomach wants to curl in on itself because he knows these aren’t the types of situations that end well.

_“…You should have her live here, at the facility, until we dig up what we need to know.”_

“I’m not exactly in love with the idea, Sherry.”

_“I want to take a look at her. Well, my colleague and I do. His name is Dr. Hugo.”_

“This doctor someone we can trust?”

_“He’s my most distinguished researcher. If anything happens to me, he’s the one who’ll take my place. He’s always been rather… disquieted about the can of worms scientific inquiry opens up, especially in light of the increasing rate of bioterrorism in the past decades. At any rate, he’s very conscience driven.”_

A scientist and a conscience are a rare pair these days. Leon is still skeptical, but at the very least, he trusts Sherry. But it might not be the wisest choice right now. Not until Ursula comes to understand some things about how the world works.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to let her go so soon. She trusts me. If she’s in a facility like that, surrounded by unfamiliar things, she might try to escape again.”

_“I never had any intention of separating you two. You’re the one who’ll keep her docile while we run the necessary tests.”_

Tests. Not the winning word.

“She won’t be staying there.”

_“You’re honestly not going to keep her in your apartment.”_

“You know what they say. Home is where the heart is.”

_“Who’s to say she won’t jump out of the window one day when she’s bored?”_

“She doesn’t like it out there. Lots of eyes, loud noises, and the white place with the tall men and sharp fingers that stick in.”

_“Sharp fingers?”_

“Needles.”

He can almost see Sherry’s face on the other side. Wry, perhaps agitated she hasn’t gotten her way as soon as she’d hoped. _“Don’t think you’ve won just yet, Leon. We still have much to discuss. ‘Til then.”_

The dial tone sounds as he turns his head slightly to study her. Her eyes are bright and youthful, full of a fool’s wonder, ignorant as to exactly how much trouble she’s in. The trouble they’re both in, more like.

All he’s sure of right now is that he wants to protect her, even given that he has no clue who, or more importantly, _what_ she is.


	3. Maenad

 

 

Before the week is through, she has about just every classic literary work he could scrounge from the library and the bookstore. His college friend has graciously loaned him _Middlemarch, Lady Audley’s Secret,_ and _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall._

It disturbs him that he dotes on her like he does.

_Has she killed before?_

The question assaults him when he’s alone. He knows too little to deny it. If she has, he prays it was only a desperate act of survival, not of heartless barbarity.

If that isn’t disconcerting enough, neither the Secret Service, the D.S.O, nor any other organizations backed by the U.S government or its allies can find any records of the men he killed. They’d had the foresight to singe the prints off their fingers and during the autopsies it was discovered the blood of these men held an antigen reactant (until now brushed off as mere fiction by the scientific community) that resists the chemicals used to identify a person from their DNA.

Leon’s brows knit. They were thorough. He wonders if the same antigen resistant is in her blood too, and considering their level of precaution he’s leaning toward the positive.

Ursula peruses a pocketbook of Percy Bysshe Shelley on the bed while he rummages around the house for more clothes she can wear before he heads to the Goodwill. So far he has two shirts he’s outgrown, a pair of shrunken boxer shorts patterned with chili peppers, and a pair of socks Sherry left the last time she was here. He bites back a smile as he wonders if she left her panties here too, but he doubts it.

He steals a glance at the ever inattentive Ursula, naked as a nymph because she can’t be bothered to see the point in wearing a simple t-shirt for more than a few hours. Like her books and her clothes, she grows bored of anything after too long and discards it. She isn’t aware of how her naked form torments him. Oftentimes she’ll just undress right in front of him.

Once she shed her t-shirt unexpectedly, complaining of the heat. He turned around quick to keep his thoughts holy. Before he knew it she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek into his scapula. “You are sad?” she asked.

_Saw virtue in her shape, how lovely…_

She falls asleep that night with her pretty paw against an open book. Gently, he pries it out from underneath her hand and lifts it to his view, curious as to what kinds of poems she’s been reading. Something about falling snow, many miles to go. He recognizes it from an ancient English class he sat in before he had hair under his arms, and remembers the boredom, the stillness and the normalcy. Jumping from then to now in his head, he isn’t sure whether it warrants a laugh or a cry. He places the felt bookmark there and closes it.

 

 

From the window, he spies the rabbit skittering into the underbrush.

Sometime later, Leon measures the stainless steel wire and snips the end with a pair of rusted pliers. He curls a loop into the end and ties it. He tightens the last of them. These few snares should be enough.

He tries to consider the bright side of this. There’s too many of them anyway. It’s less conspicuous than having to procure blood bags, too.

He orders Ursula to dress herself, taking to the steps and poking around for his boots.

“Where are we going?”

“Outside.”

Leon hunted and set traps with his father when he was young. Fortunate too, because 2004 was a year he would need to recall the experience. The forests of Spain were almost devoid of uninfected wildlife, so he had to resort to rabbits. Their meal was tough, gamey and almost bare of any nutritional value. The meat had his and Ashley’s stomachs growling miserably for the rest of the rainy, groaning night. As if resting fitfully under the roof of a decrepit shed wasn’t enough.

With that peculiar patience of hers, Ursula lifts her gaze to the canopy, ears open to all sounds and sights. A squirrel, resting on a high branch, is far beyond her reach. The owl is keen; unblinking, shrewd, much too smart for her. The owl knows what she’s about.

The rabbit jumps out into the clearing, about two feet from them.

The rabbit notices its visitors, its paws held humbly to its breast. Its whiskers twitch, its dark eyes dart. It takes a few quick hops to them, and Leon is astonished at the serendipity. Cottontails have only ever been known to be timid and flighty, but this one is almost… unafraid. The rabbit winks its whiskers at Leon, then at Ursula, and bounds once more.

In mid-leap, Ursula snatches it out of the air and holds it up at arm’s length.

Its hind paws thump uselessly at the air, its forepaws caught in her grip. Its head twitches, and he hears some struggled squeals, until Ursula bites into its cranium and silences it. It goes limp, slacking into a long strip of fur.

No words can pass from Leon’s lips as she feeds from its cracked skull, the slurping and crunching making his throat constrict. Before he can get a word in edgewise, she turns it over, holding it by its tail and draining its head into her mouth.

He wants to utter her name, but he can’t.

It spills onto pale skin, like paint on white paper. It drips and patters over her bare neck, soaking her choker, tainting the gilded locket.

 

 

Ursula is as quiet as a church mouse, at her books again. She won’t speak of what transpired between them two nights ago. He doesn’t know what to tell her about tonight’s ‘serving’. He’s been getting headaches from the blood loss and knows it’d be wise to stop feeding her through his own veins while he’s ahead.

He must have truly lost his mind.

Leon massages his temples, pondering what courses of action would enable him to acquire what he needs to sate her. The answers he gets are not those he wants to ponder on. He wonders how far he’s fallen to be feel he owes anything to this _fiend_ —this—

“Leon, I’ve remembered something.”

 “What is it?”

She presses a finger to her lips. “The birdcage.”

“You remember having birds around you?”

“No, there weren’t any. It was a big cage, nobody in it. And it floats.”

“A floating birdcage with no birds.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe they put you in there,” he says. He doesn’t have time to flinch before he recognizes the connotations of his remark, but the slight has been uttered, and at any rate it’s pretty damn close to how he feels.

Her silence reminds him, as plaintively as that night, how reserved she’s become in his presence now.

“Do you hate me?” she asks.

“No.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

All Leon wants to do is snatch out that book from under her and rip it in half, along with the rest of the novels he painstakingly bought and borrowed, just to condemn her somehow so he won’t have to revile himself with his own foolishness. As if it’d help.

“I’m not afraid. But I can’t be sure of you anymore,” he ends.

“…I can’t stop,” she whispers.

The lump in his throat aches. His slighted thumb pales in comparison. He turns away, pulling up windows on his laptop to give him something to do other than ‘wring his hands’, as the writers of sensibility would often put it. It pains him to be silent, but the clacking of keys is desperately at work to quell the punishment.

Leon lied. He _is_ afraid. Not of what she is, but what she may become.

 

 

Morning sears through the blinds he didn’t bother closing last night, striping his face. The rug has imprinted the side of his bicep and one half of his left leg. He rolls over onto his other side, smites his alarm the second it beeps. He wants to staple his eyelids shut.

Ursula is already awake. He hears the soft leafing. She is on the shadowy side of the bed.

“Ursula…” he rubs his eyes, “When did you go to bed last night?”

“I didn’t.”

She puts her chin in her hands. Ever somber and knowing. Their eyes don’t cross paths for most of the day.

 

 

_“Give her over to us for a while. We’ll run tests. I’ll call Hugo—”_

“No. All I want from you is leads, or at the very least to keep a sharp look-out. There has to be _some_ quack out there kidnapping young girls, then altering them so they have this… bizarre blood-lust. I just—”

_“She’ll be more demanding in the future. She might even turn violent. You can’t give her the benefit of the doubt, Leon. She might look all cute and cuddly now, but…”_

“Come on Sher, don’t _worry_ me now,” he huffs.

_“Her meals are going to get harder and harder to catch.”_

“I’m not doing the catching.”

From the window he spots lanky legs, a kneeling crown of antlers. He pulls the curtains together and looks askance at Ursula.

She’s seen it too.

 

 

After the buck, Leon’s fingers are itching to dial Sherry again.

This time, she almost ate through its throat.

But her abdomen is as taut as ever. She’s as dainty and petite as she’s ever been. And not a single complaint of stomach aches. Her eyes are even glassier, bluer than the clouds. Her skin is warm and peach-hued as if she was born yesterday. Even her hair looks a little shinier, the curls more graceful.

She lies on her stomach. Her foot bobs like a bird’s beak in water. As always, she pays him no mind when she has a book open.

Sometimes, when she tires of reading, she’ll stare out at the trees for hours, like she’s waiting for her long lost love to return from war. Barely imparting any notice to him.

Most of the time he can keep himself from it, but other times, he thinks about all that blood she drinks. Imagines it sit in her stomach like fat reserves. She is full of it, like an ugly queen mosquito. He had a dream recently where she was pricked with a needle and withered away into a dry prune. She was a dead, fetal raisin before he woke.

Is that what would have happened if she never tasted what little his thumb offered, and never grasped that cottontail or stumbled upon the doe and its unfortunate fawns?

Leon washes the choker and cameo in hot water. The blood stains erode from the ornament after a few washings. Old blood filters through the black lace.

The cameo gleams at him. He digs a fingernail into the lip between the two wings, and pries it open. A few hidden droplets, but nothing more. The first time he opened it, he hoped to find anything along the lines of a photograph, a locket of hair, or even a tracking device, but the inside of the cameo was left unimaginatively empty.

He’s beginning to think it would have been better if he never found her.

Or, more accurately, if she’d never found him.

He enters the bedroom. Leon grasps Ursula’s ankle, stills it. She turns around, and he hands her the only possession she had when they met.

 

 

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“What will happen if you don’t listen to me?”

“I’ll be punished,” she states, as routinely as a secretary would answer the phone.

“And how will I punish you?”

“No blood for a week.”

“No blood for _two_ weeks,” he amends. “And I don’t care if you get sick.”

Ursula says nothing, though he senses she’s eager to lower the severity of the sentence.

If worst comes to worst, he has handcuffs from his RPD days. Or day, rather. And he’s got a nice sturdy pipe in the basement to cuff her to, if she decides to act cute.

An empty threat, bless her. Against all better will and reason, he’s afraid that he cares about her. He opens the back door, gives her a rake, a trash bag, and yellow latex gloves. “Clean up the mess you made.”

She takes her supplies and sallies forth, unsure of where she made this mess. She walks on. No matter. A few minutes in and she can already smell it. The rabbits, poor sweethearts, have been torn to bits. She isn’t sure what made her so angry at them. She’s hardly ever known an evil thought since she woke, but something made her snap. Perhaps it was the fidgeting, their annoying wriggling. She regrets her meanness.

Fur, flesh and sinewy muscle slush onto the curve in the rake, and she tosses it in. She hears it hit the inside of the bag with a squishy slap, and grows hungry again. She looks back at Leon, who would sooner cuff her to a pipe in the basement than let her keep it for later.

 

 

Today he learns that she does not piss out what she drinks, nor shits out what she eats. She has only been going to the bathroom because there is another window in there to stare out of.

They enter the woods again for her lunch, but this time, he has Gladys. He can’t take any chances. He turns to her as she lifts her nose to the air and sniffs.

“What happens to everything you eat?”

“I guess I keep it.”

“So your body must use it all. That’s… efficient.” He’s trying to be objective about this, trying to suppress his revulsion.

What does he need tests for? If he wants to learn anything about her, he can just watch her eat.

And there, in the middle of the clearing, is the deer. It’s in its alert posture, but something is wrong. No, that wouldn’t be accurate. Something’s _always_ off about the behavior of the animals when Ursula has them in her sight.

It isn’t moving, almost as if it can’t, or it doesn’t want to. These animals, Leon realizes, all exhibit some kind of suicidal behavior when Ursula is staring at them. They want to stay right where they are, or they want to approach her, as if trying to make friends. But how is this possible? How can an animal override its own instincts to flee from danger?

Ursula pounces on it and her and the deer crash to the ground. She snaps it neck in an instant and it slacks into the leaves. Leon’s heart thumps, and he pulls his gun out, removing the safety.

The chewing is like the grinding of granite, or the ingestion of glass or rocks. Bones breaking. The sucking of the marrow. This sound doesn’t drudge up happy memories.

Ursula whirls around and pierces him with her stare. Her eyes… Leon’s eyes harden.

She’s not even here anymore.

Ursula bounds, and for a second he’s surprised by how fast she is. He shoots her in the leg and she collapses for only a moment, jerking herself upright and growling at him through her hair. He steps back, but keeps his stand, his grip on the gun tightening as his frown deepens.

He doesn’t want it to be this way… He once thought she wasn’t a monster. That she _couldn’t_ be a monster. The girl who smiled at him and fell asleep by his side, the girl who asked him what a “Tom  & Jerry” was, the girl that sniffed and licked his phone as she puzzled over what purpose it served if it wasn’t a book or something to eat, the girl that covered her mouth in stifled laughter when he nearly tripped over the towers of books he collected for her.

But this isn’t her. It can’t be.

She jumps onto a tree and flurries of leaves are disturbed and drift down, shaken from its branches. Leon points his gun up, scanning the area as quickly as he can.

Then he feels a shove at his back and a clamping that soon explodes into hot pain.

She has her teeth in his shoulder and blood spurts from his wound. Leon elbows her as hard as he can in the stomach, the thigh, any part of her she left open to attack to disengage her. She tears away from him to clasp her stomach, blood dribbling from her mouth as she fumbles to staunch her own bleeding. She jerks in a different direction as he empties the clip. The lock slides back.

She wavers for a moment, her balance failing, and with a small grunt, she finally collapses into a pile of leaves.

Leon doubles over, his jaw set in a grimace. He squeezes his injured shoulder, breathing through his teeth.

Ursula stirs and slowly sits up, bloody-mouthed and disoriented. Leaves and twigs stick out of her hair. She lolls, thrown off the fierce ecstasy of eating, and blinks the world into focus.

Leon’s hand drips as he stares back at her. His incredulity brings her quickly to terms with what she’s done.

 

 

The name ‘Hugo’ had him sounding plumper than he actually is, and perhaps some kind of Hispanic. In reality, his leanness can be likened to a telephone pole and his skin is paler than Leon’s. But no matter the body type, starch white lab coats and patent leather oxfords are objects of distrust. He looks exactly like the kind of quacks Leon described to Sherry in some detail already, but Hugo has his PhD in genetic engineering and biochemistry with a nonexistent criminal record. Thus, Sherry’s elite coterie of agents and test tubers put him in the clear. With a derisive, doubting huff, Leon decides he’ll have to do.

His gauzed hand and shoulder throbs as the unconscious Ursula is escorted away on a bed with her wrists and ankles shackled by soft padded restraints. There are no traces of any of her wounds. Her vital signs are stable, as if she’d never been injured in the first place. Dr. Hugo follows the patient down the hall, but takes a glance back.

By that time Leon has already disappeared.

 

 

In a hellishly white room, devoid of all reassuring furniture save for two metal stools for Dr. Hugo and Ursula, he steadies the clipboard on his knee and poises the pen.

“Ursula, what would you say you are?”

“A girl.”

“What kind of girl are you?”

She stares. “I don’t know.”

_Are you honest?_

_Are you fair?_

“Let’s talk about food.”

“Okay.”

“What kinds of foods do you like to eat?”

“Rabbits… And deer, when I can catch them, but they’re very fast.”

“What do you do when you catch them?”

“I eat them.”

“As they are?”

“Yes.”

“How do you do that?” he asks.

“I bite into them. Into their heads—if they’re rabbits.”

“If they’re deer, how do you eat them?”

“I have to break its head so it won’t move.”

“And?”

“And I eat it then.” Ursula rubs her fingers over her toes. Where is Leon?

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

“Ursula, do you know that eating animals the way you do is unnatural?”

“It is?”

“Yes. We eat animals, but we don’t eat them alive.”

“Why not?”

“Because we can’t eat the fur or the blood. It would make us sick. You see, the animals have to be properly prepared before they’re ready for human consumption.”

“But I need the blood.”

The clock is pin-pricking her heart.

“We want to know what kind of girl you are, since normal girls can’t do what you do.”

“Eat rabbits?”

“Live on blood.”

Ursula glances at the one-way mirror on the far side of the wall, nearing tears. “Am I bad?”

“No, Ursula, you’re not bad. You’re just unusual. We want to find out why you eat this way so we can help you.”

Ursula’s eyes grow dim. The glass is unresponsive. No faces appear but theirs.

Where is Leon?

 

 

Dr. Hugo has made little progress through conversation, Leon’s told. Ursula constantly questions the doctor about where he is.

He’s seen Hugo’s notes. Skimmed them, and then swallowed and turned away.

_Subject shows need to ingest live organic matter to sustain motor functions… Deprivation triggers coma like state, but not death…_

_Subject has shown resistance to conventional foods, and becomes violently ill when these are consumed. Ingestion of blood and muscle causes temporary augmentations in strength and agility, along with the revitalization of all body systems…_

_The nourishment the subject demands is increasing…_

At home, her books have been biding their time like the trapped rabbits. They both wait to be opened up.

It’s more than he can bear some days.

 

 

“How is she?” he asks.

“She’s in quite a sorry state.”

“Is she getting sick?”

Hugo sighs. “We’ve been serving her regularly, but she’s refusing the blood. She’s under considerable stress.”

“Because of me, I suppose.”

“I recommend you visit her. She’s very upset.”

“I can’t—” Leon isn’t sure what he even meant to say in the first place.

Hugo dips his pen into the nook between the board and the clamp. “She’s constantly asking about you. She thinks this is punishment for what she did. We still understand little of her abilities and stand to be injured if she becomes resentful. Even though she appears to have the sensibility of a child, she’s physically as strong as an average adult male—and that’s before she’s fed.”

Leon turns to go, but Hugo waylays him again, grasping his forearm.

“She has no qualms about killing, either. It comes to her very easily.”

 

 

The duty lever has no lock; above it, there is an ID slot and fingerprint reader. Behind it: her, locked in like a dangerous animal. It pains him to know she is there, always alone. He opens the door.

Ursula can’t believe it’s really him. After all of these endless days, here he is. She is almost brought to tears.

“Leon!” she jumps off her lonely stool and crashes into him. She clenches his sides and buries her face in his jacket.

“I meant to see you sooner,” he grunts, placing his hands over hers and loosening them. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You’re not sorry.” She says, low and tremulous.

“I am.” He longs to tear off her paper gown. Rid her of her sterilized company.

“Can we go home now?” her muffled voice, weary, has already forgiven him.

“You hurt me, Ursula. If you can’t control yourself when you’re eating, then I can’t let you come home with me,” he says.

The girl’s expression drops, and her hands begin to shake. She lowers her head and stifles her sob against his chest.

Sherry knows it isn’t her place to say anything. Dr. Hugo holds the clipboard to his heart, feigning marble. But the little scientist inside seethes; no progress has been made, very little has been uncovered.

Sherry might be jealous, if it weren’t so unnerving.

He was never half so fatherly when she was 12 years old, newly orphaned and being chased by something wearing her father’s clothes and dragging a metal pipe around. She’s been infected with G all her life, always wrestling with a distinct fear of one day turning into something without a conscience and a hunger for killing… but this girl is different. She’s the product of an experiment. A serious one that’s taken years or maybe even decades to accomplish. She might have been born as innocently as anyone else, but inside, that hunger has always been there.

After Leon leaves and the door clicks closed, Sherry observes her through the porthole, her arms locked behind her. She takes in all of the girl’s desperate dejection, her slouched figure and clenched fists.

“Dr. Birkin,” Hugo interjects, “Did you tell him about her DNA?”

“No. I didn’t want to just yet. Not until I know for sure who she is. But I suspect I won’t have much more time for digging. Those people are looking for her.”

“Don’t you think a fair warning’s in order, then?”

Sherry starts walking ahead of her colleague down the white hallway, her expression cool as snow. “He already knows they’re coming. In fact, he wants them to.”


End file.
